


hands of my mind my thoughts trembling

by ladyoftheflakes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rare Pairings, unhealthy everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:49:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1415659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyoftheflakes/pseuds/ladyoftheflakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“An eleven-year-old wouldn’t probably remember the face of the boy on the front page of the Daily Prophet, would he? Some nice pictures, really, mostly me screaming or crying and me being dragged away by dementors.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	hands of my mind my thoughts trembling

**Author's Note:**

> this is some sort of remix of an older fic from 2012, which was a secret santa with the barty/bill pairing as the only prompt. this is obviously extremely far-fetched and cracky as hell.  
> small warning for use of ableist language alluding to barty's state of mind

“Good day to you too, professor!” the owner of Dogweed & Deathcap cried, somewhat crabbily, as he stormed out of the shop, pushing a witch levitating a dozen chock-full bags in front of her out of the way. He clutched his robe tighter, his eye rotating wildly in its socket, scanning the bustling streets for known faces; faces he knew, faces he learned to know after copious rounds of researching and generous appliances of trusty old Imperius. He saw mostly families, tourists, spectators, who all came for the big event, even if they did not have tickets or knew anyone at Hogwarts. They were all curious; especially after the wave of Rita Skeeter articles had swamped the Daily Prophet front pages, day after day.

“Would it be Diggory, that _strapping young lad_?”

Of course not. Boys like him were never the ones who would win the game, not in these times. People were rooting for the underdog, for the unexpected, who came as a surprise. His good leg started to twitch as he hobbled along a narrow street running parallel to the main road. He leaned against a house wall with a heaving chest, sweat running down his neck, the pressure behind his eyes rising. He gripped his cane with white knuckles, his skin splotched red, his damp hair clinging to his scarred scalp. In a dark corner, he apparated to the foot of the mountains at the edge of Hogsmeade and found a narrow trail sparingly blocked by boulders. He was impatient, thoughts already beginning to scatter and his concentration faded in the background, replaced by throbbing pain. He yanked the eye out of the socket and crammed it into a pocket and then cursed the stones out of the way. Just after a few steps, he collapsed to the ground, his thigh already elongating. With an almost comical sound his lower leg fell off.

The hot sun burned in his newly reformed eye, stinging like a thousand needles. He shut it, and shut out the constant nagging voice in his head that said constant vigilance, constant vigilance, constant, constant. He felt oddly at peace, despite lying on the dusty ground on a nice afternoon in June, his body a mess of mismatching and rearranging parts, shifting bones and stretching muscles, skin pulled taut. He also felt like laughing, but decided against it. His lips still felt too new for that.

Behind a rather large rock, he found a small opening and crawled inside. His vigilance was lacking, he knew, but his head seemed to be on some sort of high and blinded out all safety measures. He flashed back to twenty, twenty-five years ago, when he was a kid who sneaked out of the house, experiencing the same giddy feeling when he had evaded his father’s watch successfully. The cave was empty, barring some rats that scurried around in the dark. He let lights appear, which hovered a good metre above the ground. He set up his kettle and poured his pre-prepared potion into it. After Snape, that spineless coward, had noticed the break-ins and blamed them on Potter, he had become properly paranoid and had buried his nose into advanced spell books, shielding his cupboards with the most complicated protection enchantments he had ever seen. Luckily, he had managed to get a bicorn horn still in time, but his colleague’s... vigilance necessitated buying the rest of the ingredients in the well-stocked shop in Hogsmeade. Not particularly his smartest move – hell, this day, nothing was – but after the Tournament would have ended, it wouldn’t matter anyway. He told himself that he was allowed not to care for a small portion of the day.

He heard steps outside. Bartemius Crouch Jr. leaned back and waited.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bill Weasley liked heights. He liked the feeling of the wind brushing through his hair, the ground solid beneath his feet and the endless expanse in front of him. Hogwarts was a tiny blotch in the distance, Hogsmeade an arrangement of miniature sloped roofs with the occasional chimney sticking out. He had taken a walk with Harry through Hogwarts grounds a few hours earlier and got him to talk about the tournament, earnestly listening to him trying to debunk all the rumours in the papers, his mind wandering off. His graduation had been seven years ago and he always considered himself not to be the sappy type, always preferring new and unknown, exciting places, but the nostalgia rushed back to him and it felt like he just stepped a foot outside into the adult world. He of course sympathized with Harry, who had a great burden thrust upon him, but he knew that he would have taken the chance if there had been a tournament in his time. Oh well, couldn’t have everything. He looked at his pocket watch, a birthday present from his mum, telling him in her voice that he still had time left until dinner at the castle. Harry had promised him that he knew enough useful curses for the maze already, but Bill couldn’t _not_ tell him some more, as well as some useful tricks for countering them. The competition never slept after all.

He thought about a possible congratulations party for Harry and considered a Quidditch theme. He knew it was probably not realistic for the youngest, most unexperienced candidate to win, but he felt it in his bones, somehow, that Harry would manage that. It would suit him and his very improbable life. A boulder blocked his path and he swiftly climbed it. He sat on it for a moment and enjoyed the early summer’s breeze when a smell hit his nose that didn’t quite fit the environment, dirt and trees and all. Working in magical law enforcement, he was accustomed to being suspicious on the fly and his eyes darted around, spotting no one, except a few chirping bird atop a crooked fir tree. He briefly thought of letting it go, and just revel in the quietness before the big event, but he had always been curious. And sort of daring, that too. After a few minutes of wandering around with careful steps, he noticed a narrow chasm in the stone wall, obscured by some bushes and hidden in the shadow. The smell had faded already, but Bill was sure he found the source of it. He brushed his fingers over his wand and considered pulling it out and then decided against him. He did feel very daring today. He crouched to his knees and squeezed himself into the cave.

He was greeted by dim lightning and a man slouching on the ground, a kettle between his legs. The man looked up, a neutral expression on his face. He held eye contact when Bill took a few steps forward, tentatively. Bill felt the need to cross his arms in front of his chest and stood up straighter.

“Good day,” the man said. His voice was casual, relaxed. He seemed tired. “Come to watch teenagers slaughter each other in the name of international friendship?”

Bill blinked. That was out of the blue for sure. He discarded his idea of making small talk. “I am hiking in the woods. _You_ are hiding in a cave.”

He glanced downwards to the potion still merrily brewing and regretted forgetting almost everything Hogwarts taught him, because he couldn’t identify the contents of the kettle. He looked up again to the man. He didn’t seem dangerous, or a madman. His face was plain, his features a weird mixture between young and old. The man grinned with a pained expression, only one side of his mouth curving upwards. Bill scrutinized him further, noticing his plain black robes that were way too wide for his frame and a mop of hair that grew out of a proper haircut years ago. No way in hell was that an ordinary tourist.

“I am,” the man replied after a while, playing idly with the seams of his sleeves, stretching his fingers and cracking his knuckles.

“A Weasley, I presume? I’ve seen your kind a lot these days. You all look distinctly the same.”

Bill cocked his head, reaching for his wand, already regretting not pulling it out when he entered. “Yes,” he said. “And I’m one of those who work for our nice little government. I’m on holidays and trying to let things go, and well, not look for suspicious behaviour.” He made a few steps forward while he was speaking. The man kept still and eyed him, not saying a word.

Bill let out a sigh. “Okay buddy,” he said and felt stupid immediately. “What are you doing here, in a cave, making potions? And don’t give me crap about some sleep brew you want to gift to your granny for her birthday.”

The man didn’t seem like the funny type, but also not like someone who would flip out any second, so he’d made a wager. He raised his wand to chest level as the man slowly got up, a hand braced on the stone wall for support. Bill frowned as the man didn’t even make an effort to protect himself or to reach for his wand in return. He just continued to stare at him and Bill felt uneasy. He strode forward and poked his wand under the man’s chin, probably a bit too forceful, but you never knew. He thought of himself as easy-going and laidback, but there was no chance in hell that man was not guilty of some crime. He just hoped it was illegal love-potion making.

“Will you be there?” the man said, not bothering to answer Bill’s questions. His voice was quiet and a bit rough around the edges. “For the final round, I mean. I heard they had some great things planned.”

“Sorry,” Bill gritted out between his teeth as his patience had been growing thin. “Not allowed to spill.”

“A pity,” the man murmured and continued to stare at Bill. His gaze was unsettling and Bill needed a few seconds to realize that he blinked out of tandem, one eye longer open than the other. On closer inspection, his previous assessment proved to be right – the man’s face was youthful, sprinkled liberally with freckles, but he had wrinkled skin around his brows and deep-set, bloodshot eyes. He found it impossible to discern the other’s age; from one angle he looked like twenty, from the other like past forty. The flickering lights illuminated the round and then sudden sharp lines in his face and his features changed every passing moment. At first glance, he seemed forgettable, not very interesting or even handsome, but Bill just knew that these types are the most dangerous ones. When sitting in guest lectures about muggle criminology a few years back, he’d been most fascinated by the ones who were everymen, living their boring lives nobody would look twice at, until they got caught. These cases were the most distressing and Bill already sorted the man in front of him into that category. Just then the man used his chance and gripped Bill’s fingers around his hand tightly and dug his finger nails in. With unexpected power, he hurled both of them to the ground, his wand already in his hand. Bill gulped and cursed himself for not thinking of the long sleeves as a hiding place for all sorts of things. He drew his breath in, carefully and felt the wand poking at his throat. The man was stronger than he had thought, stronger than his frail body suggested. He leaned forward, his forehead resting on Bill’s, his breathing shallow, his lips twitching into a small smile, then he frowned. Despite having seriously underestimated his opponent and the likely chance of him being a Death Eater who crawled out of the woodwork again, Bill felt oddly calm. He and Charlie both had been the daring ones of the family, but he’d always preferred to have a cool attitude about it while Charlie had shown his enthusiasm more freely. Maybe this was it, he thought. Finally, the thrill of danger started doing things to his brain. He had read about the effects of Felix Felicis once and the thought that this was similar shot through his mind. He knew he’d get out of this in some way. He always did.

“This is interesting,” the man said. His skin was cold against Bill’s. “I don’t-,” he started, but then stopped suddenly. He cocked his head and traced the lines of Bill’s neck with his wand.

“You know,” he began anew, “I always thought I’d go crazy if I don’t talk to people about things. I know, his gratitude should be enough, but I still got that darned urge to go around and shout the things I did at people.” He let himself fall, supporting his body by his elbow resting on Bill’s chest. Bill bit back his remark that he seemed plenty crazy already. Then he thought _screw that_ and said it anyway. The man laughed. “No,” he said softly and sunk his hand into Bill’s robe. “The rest of this cursed country is; most of them too blind to see. Now,” he went on, “I have the opportunity to talk, talk it all out, tell you every sordid little thing and they are on my tongue already, and I can _feel_ it spilling out already.”

Bill saw the man’s shaky grin out of the corner of his eye, his words brushing Bill’s cheekbones. He smelled oddly familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

“But if I do,” the man said and his breath wasn’t calm anymore, but laboured. “But if I do it would ruin everything I prepared, everything I _worked_ for, and the funny thing is, the funny thing is, that I desperately want to.” His laugh echoed across the cave. It rang hollow and bitter to Bill’s ears.

“And if I do, you would die here, in this rotten place, and people would miss you, your happy huge bundle of redheads would miss you, but they wouldn’t find you, because I know the tricks of the trade, you know. It must be a nice feeling to have people worry about you – I feel mostly invisible these days.” He laughed, like he made a joke only he understood. “That isn’t that bad though, it’s oddly freeing. On the other hand it’s such a damn _shame_ people don’t see my achievements.” His voice wavered and his eyes became oddly shiny, like he was feverish. He clenched his jaw and Bill in turn felt the stupid, life-threatening need to touch his face, to feel the true age of that man, to make him stop talking. His mind flooded with warning signals, each more urgent than the last, but he faded them all out and continued staring at the stranger’s – confirmed _killer’s_ , confirmed _lunatic’s_ – constant shifting expressions, a glimpse of a young anxious boy, then one of an old hermit. Bill cleared his throat.

“The thing is,” he said and he heard his own voice like it didn’t belong to him, far away and deeper than he was used to. The man didn’t move, so he continued talking. “I don’t want to die here. You will probably kill me anyway, doesn’t matter what I do.” He chuckled and closed his eyes, leaning back. He felt vulnerable with his neck exposed, but in power in an odd way as well. “But if there’s a chance of getting out here alive, I _should_ stop you talking.” And then his mind went blank as he surged forward, wrestled his arm out of the man’s grip, threaded his fingers through his hair and yanked his head forward. He crashed their lips together in what couldn’t even called a kiss, but rather a smashing of their jaws into each other. His face was at an odd angle and his nose bent uncomfortably, so he tilted his head only to find the man’s mouth open. He looked long enough to see an expression he couldn’t really read, didn’t _want_ to read. The man kept still for a moment and just hovered above him, one hand with his wand at Bill’s throat, the other arm hanging limply, his chest heaving and his eyes darting around the cave and then settled on Bill.

“Interesting approach,” the man croaked and let himself fall completely on top of Bill, with his whole body weight – which wasn’t much, Bill noted. The man’s hands were frantic, jittery, when they roamed over Bill’s upper body, shoulders and neck. He seemed to have a fascination with his clavicle, where he dug his fingers into when he connected their mouths again. Bill noted with the part of his brain that still worked that he was either extremely unexperienced or his last kiss had been decades ago. If this had been any normal date, he would have taken over control and show them how it was done, but he still got a wand pointed at his throat by a madman and didn’t want to upset that weird _thing_ that was going on at the moment. He just gripped his hand tighter and pulled the man in, who started biting on Bill’s lower lip and almost _gnawed_ on it. His hand moved up to Bill’s hair and carded through it multiple times, his face now mushed between Bill’s neck and shoulder, scraping his teeth along every stripe of skin he could find. Bill grew bolder and pressed himself against the man on top of him. Something uncomfortable was lodged between them, so he wrestled his fingers inside his robe pocket and found his mother’s watch which told him to get back for dinner immediately in a shrill voice. Startled, the other man scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide, pupils dilated, his skin blotched red. It was almost comical and Bill almost started to laugh if he hadn’t seen the murderous look on the man’s face. So he just sat up slowly and eyed the man who paced in front of him, the wand still pointed at him.

“There’s no time left,” the man said and Bill was surprised by the sudden sound. He looked up and just stared, while the man continued talking.

“Do you know who I am?”

“A madman, possible Death Eater, in a cave,” Bill replied and as soon as he answered, he got the urge to gag. “Should I know you? Are you one of the infamous ones?”

He looked at him with dead eyes. His movements were slow, his voice as well. “Where were you in 1981?”

“Hogwarts, starting first year. Why?”

The man laughed, short and bitterly. “An eleven-year-old wouldn’t probably remember the face of the boy on the front page of the Daily Prophet, would he? Some nice pictures, really, mostly me screaming or crying and me being dragged away by dementors.”

“I don’t.” Bill searched his brain often enough, but he didn’t know the man, even if there was a nagging sense of familiarity in some of his features.

“That makes it easier,” the man said, raising his wand. “I hope you are looking forward to tonight’s big event.” He crouches down until he is on Bill’s level. His eyelids lower. “Maybe, when everything has changed, you have changed as well. I don’t believe it, but...it would be nice.” He reached out a hand, stroking Bill’s head awkwardly. A shiver ran down his back and his hand fumbled on the ground, searching for his wand. He considered to just throw a punch if he didn’t find it soon enough, but the other’s wand was already pointed at his forehead.

“Obliviate!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

He took a few steps outside the cave, almost falling down because of the fake leg. The eye rotated in its socket, zooming in on Hogsmeade’s streets. He apparated just outside of Hogwarts grounds and hobbled up to the castle. He sat next to Albus Dumbledore for dinner and made chit-chat. After the sky already turned to a rosy hue, he went into the maze and placed the goblet in the middle. He got back to his office and sat in his chair.

Bartemius Crouch Jr. leaned back and waited.


End file.
